


Between What You Wanted, and What You Got

by bucketmouse



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Dorian/The Iron Bull, Friends With Benefits, Heartbreak, M/M, Minor Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/pseuds/bucketmouse
Summary: The Inquisitor and the Iron Bull are just friends with benefits. It's a casual thing and it works well for both of them.
Except the Inquisitor is starting to feel more than friendship for the Iron Bull.
Except the Iron Bull is starting to feel more than friendship too, but not for the Inquisitor. 
(Originally written for the dragon age kink meme)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So for reference I'm going with the idea that the necklace of the Kadan is more the size of how it is on the tarot cards or like the one you can buy from the bioware store, not the giant blunt weapon it is in the in-game cinematics.

It was a busy job, being the Herald of Andraste, being the Inquisitor, being the one whom everyone’s hopes for the futures were pinned on. It wasn’t like Maxwell Trevelyan had TIME for a relationship proper, even if he _did_ want one… and he didn’t, not really, not right now. That would over complicate an already complicated situation, and whatever partner he found would be cast under a harsh light and subject to a very different kind of inquisition from the people of Thedas.

Still, a man had needs.

Friends with benefits was a perfect arrangement, really, and the Iron Bull was the perfect friend to have benefits with. He was distressingly sexy, for one. Maxwell had noticed that from the first time he saw the Iron Bull knock back three Tevinter foot soldiers in one swing right before introducing himself. For another, he was aware how sexy he was and had the easy self-confidence that drew people in. He was terribly funny, Maxwell couldn’t breathe sometimes when Bull was telling a story, he was laughing too hard. He was non-judgemental but still willing to offer up advice or opinion if asked. The Iron Bull was a valuable member of the Inquisition, a valuable friend to Maxwell Trevelyan, and he could also make Maxwell’s knees weak with four words or less. 

Okay, so maybe, just _maybe_ , Maxwell had feelings for the Iron Bull that went beyond the strictly friendly. 

Trevelyan kept them to himself first, he knew from their talking that Qunari had complicated views on sex and relationships completely different to what a Freemarcher had - or hell, even a Freemarcher half raised Orlesian like Maxwell had. He played the Game well and kept his cards close to his chest for that reason. He didn’t want to give the Iron Bull reason to call it off. After all, maybe Maxwell’s feelings were just infatuation - he’d been infatuated many times before, and they all passed. This could pass, and then he would have ruined their perfectly amiable arrangement for absolutely nothing. 

Except days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, seasons changed, the Inquisition overcame one challenge after another, and still every time he saw the Iron Bull, Maxwell’s heart felt like it was going to lurch out of his chest. This was no infatuation. 

And, call him crazy, but he thought there was maybe a chance that Bull felt it too. He seemed distracted as of late - not during sex, he was always attentive and wonderful when nailing Maxwell to the mattress or whatever other surface they’d decided on, but during downtime he seemed thoughtful, mind elsewhere. He had always been a man of good humor but now it seemed even more so, a big smile splitting across his face when Maxwell only wanted his time to share a drink. He was even inclined to tell Maxwell finally that there was a way Qunari would show their affection - a necklace of a dragon’s tooth split in two. He was a Tal-Vashoth now, a Qunari no longer, but it still meant a great deal to the Iron Bull. That much was clear. He even sounded - dare Maxwell hope - _wistful_ when he described it. 

It took time - Maxwell couldn’t exactly grill the Iron Bull on details without arousing suspicion, so he had to do all the inquiry about it on his own, between dealing with the fallout at Adamant Fortress and preparing for the ball that would hopefully bring an end to the War of the Lions at the Winter Palace. The second, at least, would be … well, not a cakewalk exactly, but the Trevelyans were deeply religious and the third and spare child was promised to the chantry from a young age. With Orlais being the seat of the Divine, Maxwell had spent more of his childhood in Val Royeaux than in Ostwick. A ball in the midst of political warfare would not easy, but it would be familiar. A battle he had fought before, for once. He debated asking Dorian for assistance regarding the necklace, his distant cousin had become a good friend since joining the Inquisition, but ultimately decided against the action. Dorian for all his complaining about the Iron Bull was clearly close with him as well and a gossip to boot. Too much risk in spite of the potential reward. Maxwell was on his own in this endeavor. 

It was a little exciting, in spite of Maxwell’s best efforts to keep his expectations realistic. It was difficult to not lose himself in the fantasy, in the possibilities. 

In retrospect, that should have been a sign. Of the many curses in Maxwell’s life, one of them was his optimism.

* * *

It was shortly before the date of the ball at Halamshiral when Maxwell had all he needed completed. He debated waiting until after, but he was too giddy with anticipation and he simply couldn’t. When he finally had time and found Bull in the training yard instead of the tavern the sun was already beginning to set. Maxwell had the necklaces stored away in one of the hidden pockets of his vest, and it was a trial to keep his hand away from it as he approached Bull training with Krem. 

“Afternoon!” Maxwell called cheerfully, getting a breathless nod of greeting from Krem as he yanked his helmet off.

“Boss!” Bull yelled happily, wiping the sweat from his brow. _Maker_ he was sexy. Great training alone allowed Maxwell to keep the goofy smile off of his face. 

“I don’t suppose I could borrow the Chief for a moment, Lieutenant Aclassi?” Maxwell asked from where he stopped on the other side of the rope barrier set up to partition off the training yard. 

“Take him away, your worship - he’s got his head in the clouds today anyway,” Krem said, returning the joking formality with his own and giving a dismissive nod towards the Iron Bull. 

“Aw, come on!” Bull yelled, but Krem just gave a wave and a roll of his eyes. 

“Out! I don’t want to be responsible for taking out your other eye when you’re distracted! _Andraste’s tits_...” 

Maxwell didn’t quite bother stifling his laughter as Krem muttered the curse under his breath as he turned away to find a better training partner for the time being. Schooling his expression, the Inquisitor raised an eyebrow instead at the Iron Bull. 

“Distracted? Should I come back at a better time?” he asked lightly, but Bull shook his head and grinned. 

“Nah, this is actually a good time,” The Iron Bull said. He did a few stretches to cool down before hopping the rope, talking with the Inquisitor while he set away the training equipment. “I was going to look for you after I was done with the training.”

“How fortuitous, then,” Max declared with a grin, tone going low and sneaky for the next part - a secret shared between friends. “I have something for you.” 

Bull’s grin widened for a moment before he laughed and looked away. He looked almost… shy? Maxwell’s heart did that awful lurching thing again. 

“Me too, kinda. Me first - but not here,” Bull nodded up towards his quarters above the Herald’s Rest. 

Max considered insisting on his first, but he had all day free. More than enough time for whatever surprise Bull had waiting, to give Bull the necklace, and then spend the rest of the evening celebrating. 

“By all means, lead the way.” 

 

Maxwell had, in his own opinion of course, gotten very good at reading the Iron Bull’s mood. The man was a spy, of course, but they were close. There was a trust between them, a deeply intimate knowledge of one another. When they arrived at the Iron Bull’s claimed room, Bull didn’t sit down or push Maxwell against the door or make any move to initiate something steamy. He paced instead, a nervous energy that was nonetheless clearly edged with excitement. He couldn’t stop smiling. _Maker_ , Maxwell had it bad. 

“Well?” Maxwell prompted, raising an eyebrow and unable to resist a grin of his own. “What’s so important that requires privacy?” 

“Sorry, Boss,” Bull’s grin was an unapologetic one. “This is all pretty new to me, I’m not sure where to start.” 

“This is where Cole would say something like ‘start at the beginning’, I think?” Maxwell prompted, laughter light. The Iron Bull gave him a withering look, but it only lasted a moment, too great was his thrill. 

“Fine, fine. So. I’m sure you know by now that Dorian and I have had a casual thing going a couple times,” Bull started, and Maxwell did know that. They had never promised exclusivity in their arrangement. Still, something cold settled in Maxwell’s stomach - he was no careless child, however. His training was second to none, his smile never wavered as he gave Bull an encouraging nod to continue on. 

Never once, in fact, did he show anything other than pleasant joy and excitement as the Iron Bull trusted his good friend with what had him so distracted and happy lately - Dorian. The time he was spending with Dorian (while Maxwell was busy), the little things that had him thinking Dorian surely felt the same in spite of all that bluster. That he had never attempted to pursue a ‘relationship’ before but all his talking with Maxwell had him thinking that it might be time to try. It might be _worth it_ to try. 

What was Maxwell Trevelyan, the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and more importantly a trusted _friend_ of the Iron Bull supposed to do? 

His heart felt like it was being torn in two. He was fairly certain the mark never hurt so badly even in the early days before it was under control. That he would be perfectly content should a rift open up there and now and swallow him up back into the Fade like it had at Adamant. Why leave behind the Gray Warden when instead he could stay behind himself? It would have been less painful than this. 

Maxwell did the only thing he could do.

He lied. 

“Come here, you!” Maxwell declared, face split wide in a grin that even reached his eyes, and he pulled the Iron Bull into a hard hug, slapping his back before he pulled back to deliver a friendly punch to his arm for good measure. “Should I start sending you two on missions together? What do you think is more romantic, the scenic beauty of the Emerald Graves or the hustle and bustle of Val Royeaux? Ah! The second, of course, Dorian isn’t much for ‘scenic’ beauty.”

Maxwell paced the small room as he thought aloud, the grin never leaving his face. The Iron Bull scoffed, but he was still smiling and - _Maker_ , he was even blushing faintly. 

Maxwell wanted to die. Right there. 

“Shit, Boss! I didn’t ask you here for relationship advice, I’d only meant to say that you and I-” 

Max knew what he was getting at, and he didn’t want to hear it. As long as he didn’t hear it… He held up a hand to stop Bull short, fixing the Tal-Vashoth again with his best people placating smile. 

“Say no more. I would be offended if you wanted to pursue a relationship and didn’t call it off, especially with someone so dear to me. _That said_ , since you _did_ bring up advice and all…” 

The knock at the door was as sweet as a stay of execution. The door opened without waiting for an answer and Cullen was there, paper in hand.

“Sorry to disturb you, Inquisitor-” he started, only to stop short when he realized the Inquisitor was not alone in the room. Maxwell gave the theatrical sigh of the greatly put upon. 

“My work is never done, it seems! Don’t worry, my friend, I will think of _something._ Know I am always in your corner,” that part wasn’t even a lie. Not really. It seemed like he was going to escape this whole debacle with none the wiser when the Iron Bull’s voice halted him just as he was about to join Cullen on the ramparts. He could see Josephine and Cassandra approaching as well. He had to get this right. He had to be perfect. There was an audience now, after all.

“You said you had something too, Boss?” Bull asked, curiosity back in his voice and on his face. Did he suspect? Maxwell couldn’t allow that. If you loved someone, you wanted them to be happy, even if it wasn’t with you. That’s what all the books said, full of noble, selfless heroes. 

Maxwell made a show of snapping his fingers as if he had forgotten, turning to look back at Bull without reentering the room. 

“Right! I’m having proper attire for the Winter Palace Ball made for you! Shirts required, unfortunately, but don’t worry - I’ll make sure to have something matching for Dorian made as well, now that I know. You’ll dazzle the court together! Ta!”

* * *

Maxwell handled Cassandra’s issues easily, answered Cullen’s questions regarding the upcoming security they were intending to bring to the Ball. Josephine only asked him for a finalized list of the retinue he’d be bringing and true to form, Maxwell said he’d decided that as funny as it would be to have Cole with him in the court, Dorian would actually be a better addition what with his own noble connections even if relations with Teviner weren’t the best right now and please make sure he gets fitted for some proper court attire to be made, something complementing what was already being done for the Iron Bull. 

And then he told them that he had preparations to do and wished to not be disturbed at all for the rest of the evening - that he would take his dinner up with him, and no one was to bother him until morning. It wasn’t even a strange request - Maxwell Trevelyan fancied himself a scholar above all else and it was common place for him to lose himself in some ancient treatise or another for an evening if given a chance. Really, giving him peace and quiet to relax and get lost in a book with everything else going on was the least they could do for him. 

So what if he stopped by the wine cellar and grabbed four bottles to bring up along with him?

* * *

Alone in his room, with no one to perform for, Maxwell finally let himself drop the metaphorical mask. He stood on the balcony of his room that overlooked the empty mountain Skyhold sat atop. On this side, there was no courtyard below, no lights from encampments lower on the cliffside. Just a pure white eternity blurring together where the sky met the land, dotted with the shadows of evergreens. His breath was visible in the cool of the early evening, the sky bright and clear with stars and a low-hanging full moon. It was beautiful. 

He took a pull from his bottle of wine - his first for the evening and a relatively weak blend - fishing the two necklaces from his pocket.

All that time, he had been so focused on Bull, he had not even considered that the Iron Bull was not looking at him at all. That was how it went, though. In Maxwell’s experience, even in the Orlesian Game itself, people rarely _meant_ to hurt each other - they just did what made them happy, and sometimes you got hurt because of it. It was an unfortunate side-effect. It had never been about you at all.

Maxwell pulled his arm back only to throw the necklaces as hard as he could out into the night, following the light of the moon glinting off of them until they vanished among the snow and trees below. The cold of the air made his tears hot against his cheeks. 

“Good job, Maxwell,” he murmured to himself, affecting an exaggerated mockery of his father’s voice. “Perfect form as usual.” 

The really great part about having a room so high up, so far away from the rest of Skyhold, was that as long as no one was just outside of it Maxwell could work through his feelings in peace. It was perfect, really. And he had ordered to be left alone, so no one would hear anything at all. He could get out his pathetic and useless feelings and none would be the wiser that the Inquisitor was ever anything other than the flawless icon he needed to be.

He polished off the first of the wine bottles in record time, then a second just to make sure he was really feeling his best during the process.

He was rethinking his plan later in the evening once he surveyed the damage - bookcases overturned, desk on its side, papers scattered everywhere, sofa cushions and pillows torn - there was no two ways about it. Maxwell was going to clean it up himself or explain himself.

Not that any of the staff would _ask_ him, of course. No, Maxwell mused to himself, taking a drink from his third bottle of wine to stomp down what sobriety had returned to him after working through his drunken rage. They would say nothing, fix everything up, and in an hour or two Leliana would get word and she’d either come to speak to him herself or send someone else - Cassandra often seemed his designated handler, but perhaps Bull would be her choice instead, their closeness was no secret. Or Dorian, who was after all such a good friend of Max’s. 

He laughed bitterly. Right, _that_ settled it. No one was coming in his quarters until he had time to clean it up himself. Just what he wanted to do that night. It was a cycle. Rage, regretful attempts to mend what he had broken in the rage, a fog of alcohol to numb his mind. He went through the bottles of wine and sought out what stronger liquors he had stashed in his quarters for emergencies. He slept restlessly in short fits, waking to painful hangover, more drinking to numb it, and the cycle of rage and regret beginning anew. 

It was still dark when something changed, his eyes opening from where he was on the floor to consider that he was certain there were only three statues on the balcony above his bed, so why did he count four now?

The fourth moved, hopping off the railing and landing silently on the ground next to the Inquisitor. An assassin?

“Please say you’re here to kill me,” Maxwell was surprised by the level of sincerity in his voice at the question, but when the figure resolved itself he was not disappointed either. An assassin, yes, after a fashion. Not here to kill Max, however. 

Wide brimmed hat shadowing all of his features, Cole pulled something from the pocket of his leathers and delicately placed it on the ground next to Maxwell’s hand. He groped blindly for it, grasping the small item - _items_ to bring them up to the light. 

Of course. As soon as he saw them he wasn’t sure why he thought it would be anything else. 

He let the necklaces fall against his chest, dropping his hand back to the floor, and squeezed his eyes shut. Cole was still there, the spirit crouched and watching silently. Maxwell held his tongue as the anger washed over him, then the sadness, the grief, the hurt. Let them overcome him then pull back like the tide pulling away from the shore, each one leaving a smoother and smoother beach behind, wiping away all trace of his emotions. If he lay there long enough, maybe his heart would become smooth again, the eddies and shallows wrought by misplaced love finally gone. 

Cole above all others never intended cruelty, he didn’t deserve Maxwell’s pain. 

“Did you go all the way down the mountain to find those, Cole?” He asked lightly, once his emotions had settled. Beside him, Cole nodded. 

“A bird had taken one for her nest. I gave her some scraps of cloth instead to trade for it,” the Spirit replied softly. “She liked the shiny more, but the cloth would keep her eggs warmer.”

A breathless laugh escaped Maxwell in spite of himself. He could see that in his mind’s eye. Clearly imagine Cole trying to reason with some winter night bird over the ownership of a glittering bauble. 

“She could have kept it,” Maxwell said sadly, a sob choking off the end of his laugh. “I have no use for it now. I’m sorry to make you go through all that work for nothing, Cole.” 

Cole’s head cocked to the side curiously, the shadow of his hat still masking any expression on his face. 

“But it means so much to you. It meant so much for you to make them. Why don’t they mean anything now? What changed? Why did they lose their meaning?” 

Again, the rage, the sadness, the Inquisitor let them all wash over him. Cole didn’t mean to hurt. He couldn’t hear the Inquisitor’s heart over the mark on his hand, he had told the Inquisitor that before. It was not at all Cole’s fault. He was doing the best he could. 

“It means, Cole… that sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes it’s just… too little, too late.”

* * *

Cole got him water for his hangover when the first light of dawn began to creep across the mountain’s horizon. He helped Maxwell put his room back into something akin to order. Unsure of the reason, he even took the empty bottles at Maxwell’s request to remove them from the room before the maids came up for the morning. 

Maxwell was finally left alone again with the necklaces sitting on his desk. He looked briefly back out to the balcony before he gingerly placed both necklaces on instead, tucking them under his clothing. He could always throw them away again tomorrow.

* * *

He had the ordeals of the Winter Palace to deal with after that. It took up much of his time. And after securing the Empress on the throne and reuniting her with her former lover (there, up on the balcony, ever so briefly Maxwell’s eyes were caught by the sight of a certain Spirit standing there and looking at him so sadly with an understanding beyond his years) there was so much else to do. Real progress to make. Corypheus was on the defensive while they were on the attack for a change. Maxwell had precious little time to spend with his dear friends, though he only ever had encouraging words for Dorian and the Iron Bull, only ever expressed joy at their relationship when it was brought up by anyone else. 

They were his best friends, both of them. Of course he was happy that they were happy. Of course he was happy that they had each other now that he was suddenly deeply unavailable to spend the time with either of them that he used to before. 

Days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into the change of the seasons and a final showdown with Corypheus, turned to a hard fought victory and still more work to be done. Agents were sent where they needed to be, the Inquisition grew, and it was easier than ever to lose himself in his work, to avoid seeing certain people. It seemed like Maxwell simply looked up one day and two years had passed. The Exalted Council was called and he had to get the band back together for one final hurrah. 

The thing was, through all of it, through Orlais and Fereldan and the blessed Divine telling him what he _should_ do, none of them asked him what he _wanted_ to do. None but Mother Giselle. She was the only one who had ever asked what he wanted, the only one to ask that should a choice be made, what would he make? 

Maxwell Trevelyan was just so tired. 

He would try to save his former friend gone awry, because of all Maxwell’s curses optimism was one of them. Standing in front of the council, however, one sleeve hanging loose and empty, they had only themselves to blame if his dissolving of the Inquisition was any kind of shock. He was done. He’d _been_ done for years. 

It was satisfying to finally say it.

* * *

“There you are, Boss. I’ve been lookin’ for you,” 

It was the last voice Max wanted to hear, really. The warm, slightly rough tone that made his heart ache and his stomach lurch all at once, even after all this time. He would think that more than two years on ice would destroy that, but it was like peeling off the wall paper of the fancy Orlesian mansions. No matter who else caught his eye, no matter what else drew his fancy, there was the Iron Bull under it all. A base coat that never went away. 

Maxwell took a bracing pull from the wine bottle he had before pulling up the polite and courtly smile perfected among the Orlesian nobility. He was halfway through this one, and he felt that stopping an assassination, fighting a god (again) and losing his arm meant he should be allowed to drink straight from the bottle rather than go for a glass without judgement. Of course, he found a bar with no one else in it just to be safe. One had to consider appearances. 

“Here I thought you’d be busy with your goodbyes with Dorian,” Maxwell said, kicking the bar stool next to him out in offering. The Iron Bull took the seat which groaned faintly under his size but held. He too got a bottle, something dark that Maxwell could smell from where he sat.

“That’s later. We were both looking for you, actually. Wanted to really catch up, now that there’s a little time where diplomats aren’t breathing down your neck or his.”

“You didn’t have your own diplomats to fend off? I’m shocked.” 

The Iron Bull laughed, that low rumble of thunder that did things to Maxwell’s insides. He squeezed his eyes shut and took another drink. 

“Nah, word’s gotten around, apparently. Gossip travels fast when you’ve got a forbidden love story,” Bull said, the warmth in his voice obvious. Why wouldn’t it be? Maxwell had only ever been supportive of them. 

In truth, though, Maxwell had sincerely thought that Bull had seen through him for some time. The Iron Bull had been a spy, after all, trained to see through lies of others. Trained since he was a child, really. Certainly, they never spoke of it, but perhaps he had been sparing Max’s feelings over the years. He never pressed when Maxwell withdrew, never asked why. The Inquisitor had simply assumed that was because he already knew why. 

With nothing else on his plate to worry about for once in years, Maxwell let himself actually consider that possibility. He turned, fixing the Iron Bull with all his attention. Tried not to get distracted by the face that looked like the edge of a cliff that Maxwell was positively entranced by. 

“I can only imagine,” Maxwell said, a little flatly, eyebrows raised. “Personally if I had that I’d shout it from the rooftops, delicate political positions be dammed. Dorian and I have that in common.” 

As far as Maxwell knew, Dorian had never had any interest in hiding. It was one of the things he loved about his friend so dearly. The Iron Bull laughed again, obviously thinking the same. 

“Really, so you don’t have someone on the side…?” Bull’s tone was friendly, warm, and _positively oblivious._ Max didn’t believe it at first, couldn’t really believe it. The Iron Bull was a good actor, of course, but this level of sincerity, it was no act.

Max couldn’t help himself. He laughed. 

Once he started of course he couldn’t stop - helpless, gasping breaths, hysterical laughter that had tears streaming out of his eyes and his fist pounding at the bar. 

“Oh my - _Maker’s balls_ , you’re serious! You’re actually serious!” he got out, struggling for each breath. Twice he had false starts after that, beginning to calm only to start back up again. The third time he managed, wiping the tears from his eyes on the empty sleeve of his missing arm. “Well I suppose that settles that, doesn’t it? Unstoppable force against immovable object. Ingenuity of a former Ben-Hassrath spy against the great Orlesian Game - we finally have a winner! Someone tell the Empress she’s got a pissing contest she just won!” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw Bull’s expression shift from curious to cautious, his jaw going ever so slightly tense though his shoulders remained at a forced ease. The kind of expression he got when he realized he was dealing with something dangerous. 

All this time, he truly had _no idea._

Three sheets to the wind and nothing left to lose, Maxwell let go of the wine bottle to pop the collar of his formal attire, reaching under the layers of fancy Orlesian clothing to remove the two necklaces he was wearing, even after all this time. He was carefully not looking at the Iron Bull as he pulled them over his head and dropped them on the table in front of the mercenary. Maxwell didn’t want to see the realization that was no doubt dawning - he had done a great deal of research to get the dragon tooth necklaces right down to the last detail. There would be no mistaking what they were. 

He felt Bull move next to him, to reach out and pick them up as if unsure he was seeing correctly. Max squeezed his eyes shut and drank down half of what was left in his bottle without taking a breath. 

“Boss-” The Iron Bull started, voice thick with emotion - confusion, sadness maybe? Maxwell laughed again, a hysterical and desperate gasp of breath. 

“ _Don’t._ I’m not - I’m not your fucking _boss_ anymore. There’s no more Inquisition. You don’t report to me.” His words were slurred ever so slightly, and Max had to let go of the bottle to stand only to snatch it up again as soon as he had his feet under him. The Iron Bull reached out to steady him, but Max batted his hand away and pointed to him in warning. “ _Don’t._ ”

“For fuck’s sake, Trevelyan!” Whatever Bull was feeling before changed, frustration, anger. Good. _Good_ , Trevelyan thought to himself. Being friends with Bull had been a mistake. Let him be angry that Maxwell had spent the last two years lying to him. Lying to him so much better than Bull could lie to Maxwell. ‘Hissrad’, well, they'd see who really deserved that title. All the hurt that had built up over the years was pouring out now, a tidal wave of emotion. He had to leave before he made anything worse.

The loss of the arm was still fresh, still affected Maxwell balance as he took the bottle and turned to leave. For a second time the Iron Bull tried to stop him, probably tried to keep him from hurting himself as was no doubt a possibility in his deeply inebriated state. Maxwell Trevelyan was beyond simple things like ‘pain’ at that point and again pushed away Bull’s hand again, this time with a statement of only “Katoh”.

Bull drew his hand back like he'd been burned. Max didn't want that one know what Bull saw in his own unblinking gaze, the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes. For his part, there was too much sadness in Bull’s eyes. Too much grief. Too much damnable _pity._ How was it that Bull could love him enough to care like this, but not love him enough to _love_ him?

“Katoh,” Maxwell Trevelyan repeated quietly. “We're done. We’ve _been_ done. Don't ever touch me again.” 

Bull didn’t reach for him again, though he almost collided with someone at the entrance of the bar. 

“ _Fasta vass!_ ” of course, because how could this day be any better? Maxwell didn’t look up, not even as Dorian called out his name, as he - just as sincerely hurt and worried as Bull had been - asked what was wrong. The last thing Maxwell heard before he was out of earshot was Bull’s voice, gently saying Dorian’s name and telling him to let Max go.

* * *

He leaned against the railing of a hidden balcony, tucked away behind elaborate foliage and decorative architecture. Maxwell watched the sun setting across the Orlesian countryside, pastoral and beautiful from where he stood, the empty bottle dangling in the fingers of the one hand he had left. 

It was quite the fall from up here. He let the bottle drop, watched the way it shattered so brilliantly against the ground below. 

That was where Cole found him. Maxwell didn’t hear his approach, didn’t hear anything until Cole’s softly spoken words of “Don’t jump,” and yet they didn’t startle him at all to hear. 

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to. I was just thinking that I _could_. If I wanted to,” Maxwell explained. He was nowhere near as drunk as he could be. It was just the one bottle and hours ago now. The spirit stood by his side, looking across the fields. Just in sight there was a river, and it caught the setting sun beautifully. 

Maxwell didn’t want to die. Not truly. But it was refreshing to think this would be a lovely last sight. That if he did now, no one would be worse off for it with the Inquisition disbanded. He would not be leaving anyone in a lurch in his absence. 

“Sorrow singing across the seasons, a wound on the heart left to fester infected never tended to - _oh_ ,” Cole’s voice was so soft, barely more than a whisper. “That’s why you were sad.” 

Surely he could hear it now, as strong as anyone else’s. The anchor was no more - or if it did exist, it was somewhere else. With Solas, not with Maxwell. Now his heart was laid as bare as everyone else’s in the face of the spirit’s sight. 

Tears came again, hot at the corner of Maxwell’s eyes. He hadn’t let himself think about Bull and Dorian all this time. No, he hadn’t tried to let his heart heal any. He didn’t even acknowledge there was an injury at all. He had played the Game, as though if he could convince everyone else he could convince himself as well.

“Can you make me forget?” he asked Cole, squeezing his eyes shut but not trying to wipe the tears away. 

“I can. Do you want me to?” Cole asked. 

Maxwell considered. Considered being able to just walk away from it like it never existed. The Inquisitor he used to be railed against that idea. It was irresponsible. Maxwell was no Inquisitor any longer though, and he was just so tired. 

“I don’t know,” Maxwell answered honestly. “I know you’re leaving, Cole. I know you’re going to… go back to the Fade now.”

Cole nodded, just slightly. His hands were on the balcony as well, and Maxwell reached out to cover them with his own, holding on with a desperation he didn’t want to admit to but had nothing else to give.

“Don’t. I mean, please, will you stay with me? Until - until I decide. I know it’s selfish and that others must need you more but I-” 

“I’ll stay,” Cole said softly, “Until your heart stops hurting. However you want to do that.”


End file.
